


Forget Me Not

by thearchangelofloki



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: M/M, Post-Tartaros Arc, this is really heavy i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thearchangelofloki/pseuds/thearchangelofloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mest had to learn to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Me Not

Mest couldn’t fall asleep. No, that wasn’t right. Mest didn’t _want_ to fall asleep. After the chaos that was Tartaros and the Magic Council going to hell, he should have been exhausted. And he was. He was weary, could feel the tired ache deep in his bones, his eyes exhausted with the effort of keeping themselves open, and still, he wouldn’t fall sleep.

The funny thing about adrenaline, he supposed, was that it kept you focused. There was no time for emotions to really set in when you’re too busy trying to keep people safe, pushing yourself to the limit with every breath, barely any room for thought beyond ‘ _I have to keep going, I have to keep them safe, I’ve got to use every single ounce of power that I have to make sure that they’re okay._ ’

Once the adrenaline wore off however, the emotions that had been pushed aside came crashing back into you at full force, making you stagger under the sheer weight of them.

He’d found a family, found an identity he never knew he had (and although the name Mest felt more and more right as he slowly remembered, losing Doranbolt felt so very wrong), and he supposed he could’ve shared his grief with them in the short time that he’d had them, but they had all been grieving as well.

If his memories of his time in Fairy Tail were still hazy, then he had no doubt that other’s memories of _him_ would still be hazy. He’d still be an outsider. Besides, none of them knew the man he was mourning, not beyond a name that they’d only heard once or twice, years ago.  

He rolled over, arm instinctively reaching to find comfort in the man that should have been lying there. He was met with only the cool touch of the mattress. Of course. How could he have forgotten so soon.

Lahar was dead.

The man he loved, the man who had loved him for the past 8 or so years, was _d e a d_.

He sat up, rubbed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up, letting out a sigh as he did so.

All that Mest could see when he pressed his palms to his eyes was his lover’s pale, bloodied face, those blue eyes, once so full of determination and life, staring blankly, unseeing, yet somehow they seemed to be looking straight into him.

He looked almost peaceful in death, Mest thought, which he was glad for given the way he died, given how he’d looked so panicked when the building had started shaking, running at him, screaming ‘ _Doranbolt, get down!’_ before the explosion covered his body in flames…

Mest rubbed his eyes again.

It was the same image every time he closed his eyes, even for the barest of moments. The few times he had attempted sleep, however, it was worse. The younger man was not dead in his dreams, but his face and body still carried the burns and deep cuts that wept as he’d look at Mest from where he was cradled in the older man’s arms, blood spitting from his lips as he asked ‘ _why did you let me die?_ ’ as hands came up to wrap around his neck. The words ‘ _it isn’t fair that only you get to live_ ’ whispered in his ear as those same hands squeezed and squeezed until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Every time he woke up drenched in sweat, screaming, after barely an hour’s rest.

Mest sighed again, standing up from the bed and walking over to where he’d hung his jacket over one of the chairs in their dining room – _what was he going to do with the other chair? It wasn’t like he needed it now, not when Lahar wasn’t coming back. But by the same token he couldn’t really bring himself to get rid of it, it was one of the few things in the world that served as a reminder that Lahar was_ here – and shrugged it on, making sure the two items he’d put in the pockets were still there before taking one last look around their – _his_ – house and walking out the door.

As soon as he stepped outside he was greeted with goose bumps rising on his arms, despite the jacket that he’d just put on and he had to resist the urge to laugh.

It was almost funny how the cold, biting wind seemed warmer than the comfortable bed that he had just left behind.

He didn’t really have a destination in mind, content to be anywhere that wasn’t their… _his_ too empty house, happy to roam the almost empty streets because at least out here, even if he didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t feel so lost.

He ended up wandering the main streets of Magnolia, hands in pockets, taking comfort in the items that resided there. The only places that seemed to be open were the restaurants, and even then they were few and far between, people occasionally exited them, often in pairs, holding hands, giggling and laughing to themselves as they snuggled closer to each other to find some semblance of warmth as they made their way home. They passed by Mest without even realising he was there, exchanging the words ‘I love you’ with a kiss on the cheek as they walked by, and Mest has to resist the urge to tighten hands into his fists in his pockets, lest he break the items that were inside.

This was a mistake.

He couldn’t do this. He thought that being alone in a home that was too big for just him was bad, but being reminded of the love of his life in every couple he saw hurt him infinitely more.

He wanted to run, to get away, and before he knew it he was, legs carrying past the destroyed guild hall he would have called home a life time ago, through the empty streets, and soon enough he stopped looking where he was going, just let his legs carry him as far away from the memory of Lahar as possible.

He stopped when his legs gave out underneath him. He had no idea how long he’d been running, or how far he had, until he looked up to see where his feet had taken him. He let out a bitter laugh.

Of _course_ he had ended up here.

In front of him was Lahar’s grave, there were many others surrounding his, a lot of them new thanks to the Tartaros attack, but his feet had found the way to the only one he’s ever wanted to be at, but the last one he wanted to see right now.

He traced the letters of the name plaque he’d made. The Magic Council didn’t believe in giving named graves, believed that everyone who worked for them, councillors and Rune Knights alike should be equal in death, even if they weren’t life. Mest thought Lahar deserved more than a nameless grave though.

The craftsmanship was shoddy at best. The younger man would have been disappointed if he could see it, but damnit how could he help it when his eyes were blurry from the tears and his hands were shaking as he carved out the letters, so much so that he’d cut himself twice before he’d even finished his first name?

He didn’t make another though, didn’t think he’d have the emotional strength for it, even now.

His fingers tingled as he traced the edges of the letters, and he shuddered thinking the last time he had touched Lahar like this, it was to desperately look for a pulse that wasn’t there, begging, _praying_ to anything that would listen – gods, spirits, demons, he didn’t care, he just wanted something that would grant the impossible – that he was wrong, that there a beat that rested under charred skin.

There wasn’t, of course, and Mest thought if he was ever religious that he certainly wasn’t now, because how could any higher being let someone like Lahar die like that?

He shook himself from that train of thought, he’d learnt long ago that trying to place the blame of a tragedy on something never got him far.

He took out one of the objects in his jacket pocket. The wire frames bent slightly and the glass cracked from the way they’d landed in the initial explosion, yet it was still covered in tiny specks of blood that no matter how hard he tried to clean them off with water or flick them away with his nail, always seemed to stay embedded within the glass.

He’d felt terrible when he realised that him hanging on to them meant Lahar hadn’t been buried with his glasses, he wore them every day after all, they were an extension of his very being. They were how he pinned criminals down with a single stare, or highlighted the way his eyes would sparkle with mirth when Mest made him laugh. He couldn’t imagine Lahar without them, knew Lahar couldn't imagine himself without them either. He wasn’t truly _Lahar_ until he’d put them on of a morning, until he could see Mest’s face and more often than not be able to see where he’d hit him, because the glasses were often the first thing the younger man would put on of a morning, and Mest was always appreciative of any time he got to see Lahar’s toned chest.

(They were lying in bed one hot summer’s afternoon, shirts discarded and even though they were both sweaty and hot they were content enough to lie in each other’s arms, Lahar’s head resting on Mest’s chest, tracing nonsensical lines over his torso, touching on the faded burn mark that rested on his lower abdomen every so often. Mest could see the glasses irritating the younger man, watched as he’d stop his ministrations every so often so he could adjust them once again, and he had to wonder why he did it.

He stopped him the next time Lahar made a move to do so, captured his wrist and brought it gently to his lips and watched as the younger man tilted his head up so he could see Mest’s own face.

‘Why don’t you just take them off? You know I’m still here, right?’ He’d said, letting go of Lahar’s wrist in favour of stroking his face, tracing the lines of the frames before coming to rest on his cheek, thumb softly moving over his cheekbone.

He’d felt more than seen Lahar’s cheeks heat up, watch as he turned to hide his face in Mest’s chest, he could feel the cold glass and metal being pushing into him as Lahar mumbled out a reply, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not really.

Mest chuckled, threading his hand through Lahar’s hair, watching as the other man melted because of it.

‘What did you say?’

Lahar raised his head at that, Mest’s hand still carefully playing with the strands of hair at the back of his neck and looked in straight in his eyes, the heat from his cheeks a more obvious blush.

‘I said, I like seeing you. Just because I know you’re still there, doesn’t mean I don’t want to spend every second memorizing every part of you.’

He buried his face back into Mest’s chest after that, probably to hide the way the blush extended to the tips of his ears. Mest didn’t protest thought, how could he?

His face looked exactly the same.)

He put the glasses by the cross. Even if they weren’t on his person, Mest thought Lahar would appreciate the thought all the same.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat by Lahar’s grave, going over the crudely craved out letters of the younger man’s name with his eyes and his fingertips, but when he looked up the sun was beginning to illuminate everything around him as it started to peak up from behind the clouds. It blinded him slightly looking at it, but he guessed that was what happened when you spent hours in the cold, inky black darkness of the night.

In that moment, more than ever, he wanted to share his grief with the people he once called family, and with the way his memories of that time seemed to jumble and blur whenever he thought about them he supposed he still did consider them that. He let out a dry chuckle.

Not that he could.

Fairy Tail had disbanded after all, all of it’s members going their separate ways to continue on with their journeys as wizards, and he couldn’t claim to know any of them well enough to know where they were going.

Wendy flashed across his mind for a split second, and he supposed he remembered her the best, – _of course you do, she wasn’t there before Tenrou Island_ – and he almost considered trying to find her – she’d still be close by, surely, she was only young, after all – but then, he didn’t even know _her_ that well, did he? He’d mourned her loss once (Lahar had the spent the days their ship made it back to shore stroking fingers through his short hair, whispering meaningless words of comfort followed by reassurances that it wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing he could have done as he’d cried into the younger man’s shirt. When the tears had dried up and he was left softly hiccupping he’d heard the younger man mumble into his hair ‘ _I’m so glad you’re still here. I’m so glad that you got off that island_ ’ and that started the tears a new because damnit, _so was he_ ) that was because he’d dragged her into trouble in the first place, though.

Yes, he was glad when he found out that she was still alive, ecstatic even (the tears that night were for a different reason than when he’d cried on that ship all those years ago. He couldn’t bring himself to stop smiling even as they rolled down his face, and Lahar had one of his rare smiles plastered on his face as well as they’d cuddled by the head of their bed. He remembered fitting his head under the younger man’s chin, listening to the careful heartbeat as fingers settled themselves in his hair, thinking ‘ _nothing can be better than this moment_ ’) but that didn’t really count as knowing her, did it? He’d saved her, but that was because he’d felt guilty, he’d owed her for putting her life in danger. He wasn’t going to watch someone else die, not to the hands of those monsters.

Not again.

(‘I’ll never let myself be in debt.’ Lahar had once said, head resting in the older man’s lap after an exhausting day of training new recruits, Mest’s fingers detangling that long hair with a careful ease as he watched his companion’s face. ‘I don’t want to be in a position where I ever owe someone something.’

Mest had questioned him then, asking what he counted as a debt. Did favours performed by others count as debts? If someone went and got the mail for him, even though it wasn’t really out of their way, did that count?

‘Anything that anyone does for me that makes my life better or benefits me in some way is something I consider a debt, Doranbolt.’ He’d said, a small frown starting to form between his eyebrows before Mest had let his fingers fall free from the long hair in order to smooth out the skin. ‘If someone improves my life, then I’ll feel obliged to return the favour.’

Mest had chuckled then, saying that he guessed he was going to spend the rest of his life indebted to Lahar, and when the younger man asked him why, he just let out another chuckle and returned his fingers so they were running through the younger man’s hair again.

‘Because Lahar, you count a debt as someone improving your life, as someone making it better. And you make my life infinitely better just by being in it.’

Lahar had blushed at that.)

He reached into his pocket, fingers quickly finding the small object that rested inside it, drawing a warm comfort from the cold metal that was now encased by his palm.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Mest spun around fast, hand freeing itself from the pocket it had been in. He hadn’t heard anyone come up behind him but then again he wasn’t really sure he would have. He certainly wasn’t paying any attention to the outside world.

“M-Mr. Dreyar. What are you doing here?”

The older man smiled and walked over closer to him, and Mest had to resist the urge to reach into his pocket and hold onto the object in there again. He didn’t know _why_ he was so desperate to hold onto it, maybe it was because it was the last thing of Lahar’s that he still had left. Maybe he wanted to protect Lahar’s memory anyway he could, which was silly because Makarov Dreyar was the one who gave him back the family he had forgotten, even if it was for such a short amount of time. He certainly wasn’t the type of person to take the memory of someone important – someone like Lahar – and squander it.

The old Guild Master rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Please, call me Makarov. Even though the Guild Hall is gone and Fairy Tail has disbanded officially, we both still bare it’s mark, that makes Fairy Tail home for the both of us. That makes us family, my boy.”

“A-Alright, Makarov.”

They sat in silence a while, and while the older man’s hand didn’t quite have the same effect as the object in his pocket it was successful in grounding him, keeping his thoughts in the here and now, and for the moment, Mest was grateful for that.

“Was he a good man?”

Mest blinked, startled by the sudden question. “Who?”

Makarov gestured to the grave in front of them. “The person you’re mourning. Was he a good man?”

“The best.”

A pause.

“Did you love him?”

He blinked, his hand instinctively moving over to cover his pocket, and from the outside he could feel the object that resided there. He didn’t have to think about the answer to the question, not really.

(The first time Lahar had said ‘I love you’ to him was after they had been together for 7 months, comfortably living with each other for 2. He’d been crying at the time, and whether they were angry tears or tears of pure relief Mest would never know. They’d been fighting a dark guild, their members attacking a nearby village.

The Rune Knights had an almost assured victory, managing to disarm and capture almost every wizard with relative ease. Lahar had been leading them, a role that Mest thought he did perfectly, and he had to wonder why the younger man had ever been worried, when a wizard that had somehow escaped the initial assault made by the Rune Knights appeared under the cover of the trees, casting a spell that he could see was aimed for the younger man.

Mest didn’t even need to think before he was running for Lahar, pushing him down to the ground so he took the spell instead.

He’d ended up with a concussion, a couple of broken ribs and a nasty looking burn on his abdomen, but when he’d woken up a couple of days later and saw Lahar in of the chairs, leaned over onto the bed with one of Mest’s own hands gripped tightly in his, he knew it was worth it.

When Lahar had woken however, he’d immediately retracted his hand, as if Mest’s had burnt him, and refused to talk to him beyond tense one word answers. The doctors had come in shortly after that, saying that Mest was given the all clear and could go home whenever he was ready. Lahar had helped him out of bed, had kept an arm around him and took slower steps for Mest’s benefit as they made their way home, but he refused to speak, no matter how many times Mest tried to coax responses out of him.

It was only later that night, when Lahar had redone his bandages with shaking hands, when he’d laid him down and made sure he was comfortable and went to walk away that Mest grabbed his wrist, begging the younger man to tell him what was wrong that Lahar broke down. Mest didn’t need him to turn around to know that he was crying, could he the tears in his voice as it shook.

‘I love you. And I can’t lose you. When I saw you take that spell, my heart stopped. I couldn’t…I couldn’t breathe. There was blood, _so much blood_ and I thought…’ He’d turned to him then, almost collapsing on the bed as he’d held Mest as tight as he thought he could without aggravating his wounds, burying his head in Mest’s chest.

‘I love you so much. Too much. You’ve become such a big part of me. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Please don’t make me think I’ve lost you again…Please.’ He was close to sobbing by the time he’d finished talking, so Mest held him tighter, despite the pain it caused his wounds, and pressed a kiss to the top of the younger man’s hair as he tried to calm the other man down.

‘I love you too, Lahar. More than you’re ever going to know.’)

“Did I love him? I still do. More than anything.”

There was a pat on his back, and when he turned to look at the other man the expression he saw made tears gather in the corner of his eyes. There wasn’t the pity he expected, or even the sorrow he’d seen in a few people’s eyes, there was just understanding. Understanding, and sympathy, and a whole lot of love.

Mest turned away. He thought he’d cry if he looked in his eyes any longer.

Makarov pulled his hand away, and Mest used the opportunity to wipe he eyes with the back of his sleeve. He didn’t want to cry, not outside, not where other people could see.

“You know my boy, if he was as good of a man as you seem to think he was, I’m sure he won’t mind you letting go.” The older man said, and Mest froze. That’s what he was doing, wasn’t it? Letting go of Lahar, allowing him to rest. He thought back to the way he’d scrambled to protect the remaining object inside his pocket, even though there was no danger of it being taken away from him.

He almost laughed. He thought he was letting go, but just how desperately was he still holding on?

How had this man he’d only known years ago been able to see that?

He’d heard footsteps then, and it took him a moment to realise that the old Guild Master was walking away, and he didn’t know whether to scramble up and thank the man or ask him how he knew.

He ended up doing neither. Somehow, he felt this was for the best.

“If you need to talk my boy, you’ll know where to find me.” The older man called out, and Mest wanted call back that he didn’t. His memories of everyone in Fairy Tail were hazy at best, and even though he remembered the Guild Master better than most, he still wouldn’t know where he would be besides the Guild Hall.

He paused. _That makes Fairy Tail home for the both of us_. The Guild Master wouldn’t leave Fairy Tail’s old Guild Hall until everyone had found their new beginnings, and he supposed that meant him too.

A small smile graced his face then.

When Makarov had left, leaving him completely alone with Lahar once more, his hand returned to his pocket, finding the small metal object and bringing it out into the light of day.

(Mest always figured he was going to be a bachelor for life. He figured he would never find someone he would want to spend the rest of his life with, and certainly never find someone who would want to willingly spend the rest of their life with _him_ , he always thought it sounded strange and weirdly clichéd, but that was before Lahar had come into his life.

So the fact that he was in a jewellery store, more than a little confused and overwhelmed as he looked for a ring, was surprising to no one more than him. He didn’t know what he was looking for, not really, but a plain band felt like he didn’t put enough effort into it, and he knew Lahar would never like anything over the top. Calling over an assistant felt like cheating, so he was left standing in front of rows and rows of gold and silver rings that didn’t seem _quite_ good enough for the man he intended to give it to.

He was almost ready to give up, maybe try another store, or hell, give up altogether – the doubt started to creep in, whispering that Lahar wouldn’t want to marry someone like _him_ anyway – when he spotted the perfect ring out of the corner of his eye. He called someone over then, for the sole purpose of looking at it under closer inspection, to make sure it was _truly_ the right one for Lahar. When he did, when he was able to hold it in his hands and feel the way the edges rested against his palm he was sure, more sure than he’d ever been, that this was the one.

He’d propose with this ring, he knew it.)

The ring was nothing over the top. It was a simple gold band on the outside, but on the inside there was a bouquet of flowers – Forget Me Nots, to be exact – that would leave an impression on the wearer’s finger if it was ever taken off.

(Mest had been the first one to confess that he had feelings for the other. They’d been on a training camp, just them and a few new recruits in the middle of the woods so they could practice barrier magic and quick form runes without having to worry about the general populace. It was almost dark when he found the wild flowers, their blue petals looking darker because of the lack of light, but even then he knew – he _hoped_ – that they would be the perfect way to let the younger man know of his feelings. So he waited until everyone else had gone to bed, waited until Lahar was sitting by the campfire by himself, grading the recruits in their proficiency in whatever spell type they were practicing that day. He’d sat beside him then, struck up conversation as he usually did, waited for the natural lull that created a silence which never seemed to be uncomfortable between them before getting one of the flowers he had taken – and he’d taken a few, he had to make sure it was the _perfect_ one. Nothing less would do for Lahar – and placing it gently behind the younger man’s ear, tucked safely between a few locks of hair. When Lahar had given him a questioning look, he simply smiled and adjusted the flower once more.

‘It’s a Forget Me Not, I thought the colour matched your eyes.’

He knew that Lahar knew the language of flowers, had all the flowers in Fiore with all their meanings memorized down to a T, so when Lahar looked down, fighting – and losing – against the blush that was rising high on his cheeks, Mest knew that Lahar had understood what he was trying to say.

‘That’s very…nice of you, Doranbolt. Thank you.’ Lahar said, moving to brush away an errant piece of hair away from his face. When his fingers touched the soft petals of the flower however, he paused, and Mest could have sworn the blush travelled to the tops of his ears.

He didn’t think he’d seen anything so amazing.

There was a bouquet of the same flowers loving arranged on his desk a week later, and Mest would have even gone so far as to think it was from the same Forget Me Not plant. When he looked over at Lahar, who was sitting as his desk none too far away, trying desperately not to look at him with the suggestion of a blush riding high on his cheeks, he knew exactly what the younger man was trying to say.

Lahar felt the same way, too.)

Mest cleared away a patch of grass next to the glasses and placed the ring down next to them, if not a little closer to the cross.

It was Lahar’s, anyway, even if he didn’t live long enough to know it.

Without the weight of the ring in his pocket to keep him grounded, he felt…lighter, freer, in a way. He wasn’t sure it was a good thing, however, he almost felt too light, too empty, ready to be blown away at the slightest gust of wind.

He put his head on the centre of the cross to tie himself down. It worked, better than Makarov’s hand had. He felt like there was a weight in himself again, like there was a gravitation pull keeping him to the ground again, and part of him wondered if it was Lahar’s doing.

If he was keeping him grounded just as he would’ve when he was alive.

He sighed. He didn’t want to leave now that he was here, would happily stay by Lahar’s side forever, head rested against the wooden cross, but he knew he couldn’t. Makarov was right.

He needed to let go, to move on.

And as he stood up, a breeze carrying though the scent of their flower, smelling the way it only smelled when it was night, he knew Lahar thought so too.

So he began his trek home, he knew he still had a couple of hours of walking a head of him, was sure if he tried running again his legs would give out, but he was okay with that. His mind was clearer now. He could think again. He knew that once he got home, to _his_ home, that he would take off the coat, and sleep the day away.

He didn’t think he was going to have nightmares this time.

 

 

 

_Forget Me Not flowers symbolize true love. They also symbolize faithful love and memories. As the name suggests, they are given or used to decorate gifts with the hope that the recipient will not forget the giver, for as long as they live._


End file.
